The Case Of The Perfect Stitch Up
by Jennistar1
Summary: John's finally had enough of trying to change Sherlock's heartless nature and decides to move out. However, a case pops up just before he can, leading the pair on a wild, complicated and above all difficult adventure.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Case Of The Perfect Stitch-Up: PART ONE - The End

**Author:** starjenni

**Disclaimer: **Not mine!

**Characters, Pairings:** Sherlock/John gen. (although could be seen as slash if you lie on the floor, tilt the computer sideways and squint). In this chapter, cameos by Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.

**Warnings: **Arguments, swearing, thoughts of violence. It's quite angsty, so a warning for that too.

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers: **For all episodes.

**Summary:** John's finally had enough of trying to change Sherlock's heartless nature and decides to move out. However, a case pops up just before he can, leading the pair on a wild, complicated and above all _difficult _adventure. How is this going to help their already existing problems? The s**t, as the old proverb goes, has hit the fan…

* * *

John is going to leave. He knows it as soon as the case is over and they are in the taxi on the way back to Baker Street, tired, exhausted, silent. It is not a decision that he is taking lightly or suddenly, because he has been thinking about it for months now, maybe even a year. He thinks about it every time they have a case and Sherlock does what he has just done now; every time it happens, or it looms up in their conversation, or in Sherlock's actions, he thinks about it and thinks about it and now he _knows_ for sure that he is actually going to do it. He is fizzing with anger from head to toe, and he doesn't have to be a deductive genius like Sherlock to see his left hand start to shake and to know what it means.

When they get back to Baker Street and are safely inside 221b, Sherlock says without preamble, "You're angry with me."

It is said flatly and easily, not nervously, not worriedly, and it just confirms what John has been thinking all along. He doesn't want to do this now though, he's tired and he's broken and he is _not _running away when he replies, "Tea?"

Sherlock goes to the window, looks out of it, doesn't look at John. "I know why you're angry," he says, still as calm as anything.

"_Really_," John drawls. He didn't want to do this, doesn't want to, but Sherlock is pushing it, and now he's reverting to sarcasm. "I wonder what gave it away. Maybe it was the way you cornered that obviously already panicky suspect - "

"He was a murderer, John - "

" - and in a public place no doubt, or maybe it was the way that you started to _show off_ with your deductions, leading to him become even _more _panicky and then subsequently take that woman hostage. Or perhaps it was that you put catching him before helping the woman, and she got hurt as a result. Do you think that could be the reason why I'm angry, Sherlock? _Do you?_"

Sherlock goes very still. "We've been through this before. I know everything you are going to say and you know everything I am going to say, so let's just - "

"No." John shakes his head, feels his hands ball into fists. "No, not this time. I'm not dropping it this time, Sherlock, usually I let it go because you are as brilliant as you are a complete bastard, but this time someone got hurt and that is not acceptable. That is _not acceptable. _Your uncaring and downright _heartless_ nature, your addiction to the case and nothing but the case, it's not on. It's so not on and you know it."

Sherlock is completely unmoved by this, and though John is half expecting this, he feels his rage double in size anyway. "I have told you before," Sherlock says, still calm but John can hear the faint angry tremor in the back of his throat, at the end of his syllables. "That is who I am. I can't change it and I don't want to. It's _better_ this way, I'm more equipped to solve the case before me, without emotional baggage I am - "

"_It is not better,_" John nigh-on shouts. "As today proved! You let an innocent person get hurt because you were busy trying to show off, you were busy trying to catch the criminal and win the game, don't you _see?_ Don't you _see _how this is wrong?"

"No." And now Sherlock sounds bored. "I don't."

He says this every time, because it's simpler to accept something then to change it, John thinks furiously. He pushes on regardless. "I have tried," he says as levelly as possible, "To make you realise. To make you see, but you won't. You could do it if you wanted to, but you won't. There is nothing I can do to take you away from this _stubbornness_." He pauses and then says it, the fated words that he has thought on and thought on and not said until now. "I can't do this anymore."

Sherlock blinks just for a moment, then turns from the window, a haughty half smile on his face. "Don't try and threaten me with that. We both know you won't leave."

John sets his jaw. "And how's that?"

Sherlock sighs, as if John is being deliberately obstinate and immature. His patronising nature is driving John up the wall. "Because you're addicted to the _game_, as you so eloquently put it, just as much as I am. Because you love the danger just as much as I do, and because without it and without me you would die of boredom, so don't say you are going to walk out _ever_, John, because it's never going to happen, you are always going to stay no matter what I do or how 'heartless' I am and that's it."

For the first time in his life, despite the arguments they've had in the past, John actually wants to hit him. He laughs instead, a harsh laugh, because Sherlock just doesn't _get it._ "Yeah, all right, I like the danger," he says. "Why not admit it? I know this. But what I don't like, what I _hate_, is watching you upset and hurt and destroy people with your callous and selfish ways, and yeah, maybe the danger is good, but it's not so good that I can put up with you anymore." He takes in a deep breath. "I have tried to help you, I've stayed this long because I thought that maybe I _could_, maybe I _could _reach you, but there is nothing to reach, is there? You won't let me change this."

Sherlock's face goes very dark; finally, _finally_ he is showing a bit of emotion on his face, finally he is dropping that cool, unaffected mask, and John celebrates at it because this shows he is _getting somewhere._ "I don't _want_ to change this," Sherlock snarls. "I like this, I want this, and I never _asked_ for you to change it, so if that's the only reason you've been staying around, maybe you _should_ go, John, because otherwise you're just wasting your time."

"Fine," John retorts hotly. "Then I will. You're right - teaching you, the _great _Sherlock Holmes, a bit of humanity _is _a waste of time. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Well that makes two of us then," Sherlock smoothly finishes.

They both fall silent, staring at each other from across the room, and now, even now, while John is watching him and knowing that this is a complete disaster, he does not like the idea of just _giving up_. John is a doctor for a reason, John was created to help people, to heal them, to sort out their problems. John is a deeply caring, caring man, John is a loyal man, and he hates having to even think about letting go, but _this…_this is _hopeless._

Sherlock is not - and will never be - the hero John hoped he might become. John has been living in some sort of _dream._

"I'll give Mrs Hudson my notice tomorrow," he says flatly.

"Fine," Sherlock says, and sits down on the sofa, engrossing himself in a sheaf of papers.

John goes upstairs to his room.

* * *

_This is an unwise move_, says Mycroft's text at half ten the same evening. John stares at his phone and wonders how he could possibly _know_ (did Sherlock tell him? has he bugged the flat? John's computer? Has he seen the flat share websites John has been on?)

_I am doing nothing here_, he sends back, and he realises just how helpless this makes him feel. John likes to feel that he is making a difference, that's why he loved being a surgeon and that's why he loves going on the cases, because along with the risk and the danger comes the satisfaction of doing something _good, _and with Sherlock he is not doing that. He even gave up the idea of going back into surgical work to help Sherlock with his cases instead, and look where that's got him.

Mycroft texts back, _you are doing everything._ John deletes it.

* * *

Mrs Hudson's heartbroken look when John announces his decision is just about the icing on this horrible cake.

"But you were getting on so _well_," she protests. "Don't leave love, I'm sure it'll work out in the end."

"Not this time," John says, and squeezes her hand sadly.

* * *

He finds a flat a bit further away and more expensive, despite the fact that he will still be sharing it, but his tenant is a nice _normal_ businessman and the flat itself is lovely. The Sherlock in John's head snidely adds _and dull_ onto this list, but John ignores it.

* * *

He is packing in his room three days before his move when Sherlock turns up and hovers in the doorway. They haven't spoken since the argument, and it's been beyond awkward, like John is living in a silent film where there is only actions and no speech. They sit and avoid each other's eyes every evening, until one of them cracks and then leaves. It's _unbearable._

John ignores Sherlock and carries on packing. Sherlock watches for a while and then finally says, in a very low voice, "Please don't do this."

Sherlock _never_ says _please_. John wonders if Mycroft has been on his case. Or maybe this is pure unadulterated Sherlock, trying one last trick just to see if it will work, maybe this is an _experiment _for him.

And it almost works as well, because despite the raging arguments and the supreme lack of communication skills they seem to share when it comes to each other, they are goddamn _wonderful_ together, and in a very deep part of him John knows that they met for a reason, that they are here for a reason, and that throwing this away - this awesomeness, this friendship - will be one of the most stupid things he has ever done.

But Sherlock _won't change._ It's not that he can't, it's that he won't, and while he refuses to then John can't stay here. He's had enough.

He carries on packing, silently. After a bit, Sherlock goes back downstairs.

* * *

It's the morning on the day before John is going to leave that Lestrade turns up while they are silently breakfasting, his harried and worried expression telling both that once more the game is on.

"What is it?" Sherlock asks.

"A murder," says Lestrade. "A weird one. Will you take a look?"

Sherlock plays with his cereal for a bit. "Where?" he says.

"Near Hampstead Heath," says Lestrade.

Sherlock hesitates a bit longer, probably just to annoy him, and then says, "All right."

Lestrade nods in relief, but instead of turning around and rushing back out like he usually does, he turns to John as well. "John, will you come as well? Looks like we might need your advice on this one."

John frowns, taken a bit aback. "What, my medical advice?"

Lestrade nods.

John glances at Sherlock, who is suddenly engrossed in his morning paper and won't look up at him. This is not a good idea. There is nothing about this that is a good idea; he and Sherlock aren't even _talking_, how are they going to be able to solve a murder together, plus what if going back onto a case pulls apart his already rather unsteady resolve?

But he can feel it again, in his bones, the thrill of the game, and he thinks, _maybe one last time, just one._

"All right, I will," he says to Lestrade, who has been giving the pair a rather narrow, confused look. Sherlock says nothing, which at least means he's not completely against it, so this is…hopeful. Sort of.

"We'll be right behind," he says to Lestrade, who rushes out gratefully, and Sherlock and John are left looking nervously at each other.

"Right," starts John.

Sherlock stands up abruptly. "Let's go," he says, and wrestles on his coat, and they get a taxi together, in complete and utter silence.

This, John thinks, is a spectacularly _awful _idea.

* * *

_I hoped you liked, please review if you did! Chapter Two up soon, where s**t gets serious..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** The Case Of The Perfect Stitch-Up: PART TWO - The Missing Heart

**Author:** starjenni

**Disclaimer: **Not mine!

**Characters, Pairings:** Sherlock/John gen. (although could be seen as slash if you lie on the floor, tilt the computer sideways and squint). In this chapter, cameos by Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson.

**Warnings: **Arguments, swearing, thoughts of violence, a corpse and blood. It's quite angsty, so a warning for that too.

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers: **For all episodes.

**Summary:** John's finally had enough of trying to change Sherlock's heartless nature and decides to move out. However, a case pops up just before he can, leading the pair on a wild, complicated and above all _difficult _adventure. How is this going to help their already existing problems? The s**t, as the old proverb goes, has hit the fan…

* * *

The taxi ride to Hampstead Heath is as silent and awkward as the last few days have been. Sherlock glances a few times at John, but John is wearing that same rigid expression of forced calm that he has been using since their argument. It is very similar to the expression he wore when Sherlock first met him in the laboratory, when he was by that time deeply immersed in boredom and dull drudgery, when he leaned on a stick that he didn't need, his mind all desperation, his face like stone, showing nothing of himself because he believed there was nothing to show anymore. Sherlock has seen that hard expression fill out gradually since he has been with him, with every case and deduction and little runabouts that he has dragged him on, he has seen more of that warm, open personality that John _really_ has unfold on his face, unfold like the most compelling case he had ever tackled.

He realises this: When he is trying desperately to hide frustration, John is like flint.

John is frustrated with Sherlock in a way that Sherlock understands and doesn't like but can't change. People don't seem to _realise_, he thinks. They put so much store by emotion, by thinking of others, by caring about other people, but if Sherlock was running around _caring_ all the time, he would be less efficient. If he had worried about that woman hostage, then the murderer would never have been caught. He might have murdered again. Sherlock very well could have saved someone by _not _caring. And if that's the case, why should he bow to society's expectation? If he's better not caring, then why should he? This stupid pre-disposition people have…to _care_…

He should have known that everyone has it, everyone in the world but him. He should have remembered: John is just like everyone else. Just because he hasn't run for the hills straight away doesn't mean at all that he wasn't ever going to do it. He's stuck it out longer than anyone else, but that's over now. Sherlock shouldn't be surprised. But he _is._

He doesn't want John to go. He has - much as he hates to admit it - become _attached._ John being around for so long, Sherlock has started to _like _him. He likes the company, likes having someone to complain at and to laugh with, he even likes John's silly, normal deductions, because they give him an insight into the normal mind, something he finds difficult a lot of the time. He's a genius; how is he meant to know how normal people work? Unfortunately it's mostly normal people who commit murders, and sometimes, but very rarely, this lack of identification Sherlock has with them impedes his ability to solve their cases. Like that stillborn child business - fourteen years and still upset, _why?_ It hadn't been vital in the end, but it could have been. And Sherlock hadn't understood…But John has helped with this understanding…like he has helped with everything…

But now Sherlock is hurt; hurt that John seems to have only stayed with him to try and _change _him. Isn't Sherlock as he is enough? Why has he got to be _caring_ to receive John's approval? Why can't John like him despite this? Is this so important to him, that he will give up the whole of Sherlock because he is not getting that one little bit from him?

John should leave then, if Sherlock isn't enough. Sherlock coped before he came along, he can cope again. It's not _difficult_, it's just…colder.

Very…very much colder.

* * *

The taxi pulls up at the edge of Hampstead Heath, where police cars litter the verge, and as soon as Sherlock gets out of the taxi, John in tow, Lestrade is upon them.

"John, we need you to look over the body, Sherlock, come with me to the crime scene," he says in one big rush, without preamble.

John doesn't look at Sherlock - another of the thousand signs Sherlock has learned to interpret that he is angry with him - and instead lets himself be led by Donovan to the white tent that now contains the body.

"It's near the Highgate Ponds," Lestrade says, and leads Sherlock in the other direction. He feels himself move reluctantly, awkwardly, it doesn't feel right parting from John without even a nod.

He and Lestrade walk quickly in silence, until Lestrade suddenly says, "So what have you done now?"

Sherlock gives him a quick, cutting glance. Lestrade rolls his eyes. "Oh come on, I'd have to be blind to notice you two weren't talking to each other. Is it another head in the fridge thing?"

Sherlock is going to ban the writing of John's blog. Except he won't, he won't have to anymore, because John is never going to write about him again.

"No," he says shortly, and then, because he hasn't really had anyone else to talk to about this, aside from Mycroft's _you are an idiot_ text, continues, "He's moving out."

"What - permanently?" Lestrade very almost screeches to a halt completely.

"Yes." Said in a dull, flat tone, because right now Sherlock can't bear the emotion. Everyone's going to ask about this. Everyone he knows. And they'll all be upset, because no one has a thing against John and they all have something against him.

"Well, you're a bloody idiot then, aren't you?" Lestrade continues, recovering smoothly.

Sherlock grits his teeth. "It's not _me _that's moving out."

"Yeah, but it's _because _of you though, isn't it?" Lestrade sighs; Sherlock can see the crime scene up ahead, the people milling around. "Look," Lestrade says. "You shouldn't let him move out. You've got to say something, you _know _how good he's been for you. We all know it, it's obvious."

Something inside Sherlock sinks deeply at these words. He's _tried._ He wants to go back to who he was before even less than the others do. But… "It's something that can't be fixed," he says. "Ever." And by this time they have reached the crime scene, and Lestrade has to drop it and get on with the case, because other things are important too.

"We found the body, just here," he says, pointing to a large expanse of ground not more than two feet away from the edge of the water, splattered with blood. "Michael Moorland, age forty-two, a private surgeon in a surgery not far from here. Killed by a blow to the back of the head with a blunt instrument whilst out on his usual nightly walk around the Ponds."

Sherlock looks over the calm expanse of grey-green water. "So what's so unusual that you had to call me in?"

Lestrade puts his hands in his pockets; grins slightly. He has some of Sherlock's taste for dramatising things, like with his revelation on Rachel, the still-born daughter. "Get this," he says. "Someone cut into him, removed his heart, then _sewed _it back up again. We don't know why."

Sherlock glances around him. "When was he killed?"

"Well, his wife said he goes on his walk after dinner every night, round about nine," Lestrade says. "Forensics say he was killed maybe around ten o clock."

Sherlock nods, head filled with facts. "So the killer knew him."

Lestrade frowns. "How did you know?"

"He knew when to get him alone," Sherlock says calmly. "He knew that Moorland would be around here at a certain time every day, so he waited. He also wanted the body to be found and quickly - I wonder why."

Lestrade looks confused again and Sherlock rolls his eyes inwardly. "Come on, _look._ He was left two feet away from a large body of water. If the killer wanted his crime to be delayed in the finding, all he would have to do was push the body into the water. It's quite deep, the police would have had to dredge the Ponds to find him. Instead he left him to be found on the side. Obvious."

Lestrade scratches his chin. "Right, okay…What about the heart bit?"

Sherlock sniffs. "Need to take a look at the body for that."

Lestrade takes him back to the edge of the Heath, to the white tent, and they go inside. Inside it is Donovan, Anderson and half a dozen other officers, as well as John and a naked white body stretched out on a metal table. John is leaning over the body with a magnifying glass, examining a series of stitches patterned across its chest.

"Well," Sherlock says, his voice more clipped than he meant it to be. "What have you found?" He sounds harsh and unforgiving, but John doesn't show any signs of hearing this, he is focused on the work at hand.

"The heart's been entirely and very neatly removed, I've looked at the X-rays," he says, trailing his magnifying glass up the corpse. "And the stitches are perfectly done; the person who did this knew exactly what they were doing."

Lestrade says thoughtfully, "And our victim was a surgeon…"

Sherlock strides up to the table, examines the blow on the back of the corpse's head. The skull is caved in, but Sherlock can immediately see that this wasn't due to a single blow. "The killer wasn't strong," he says. "He had to hit him twice - maybe three - times to kill him. John, would you agree?"

John leans over to examine the blow, Sherlock tilting the head so he can see it, and suddenly it hits him how he has momentarily forgotten their argument. John inspects the wound carefully, says, "Yeah, I'd agree. It's sloppy…"

"The killer was also forgiving then," Sherlock says softly, more to himself than anyone around. "He could have stunned the victim, then taken out the man's heart. Instead, he made sure he was dead so he wouldn't feel the pain."

"Probably not revenge then," John says quietly, and Sherlock nods.

"Not a crime of passion. A much cooler motive."

John nods enthusiastically, lifts his head, and for a moment their eyes meet across the body. For a second the glance is charged, excited, enjoying the case and the discoveries they are making together, and then John seems to recall himself; he blinks and looks away, and Sherlock feels suddenly bereft.

Lestrade is humming thoughtfully. "So could this have been a work colleague at the surgery?" he says. "Heart taken out so professionally - maybe he was someone else who worked with Moorland?"

"Worth investigating," Sherlock says. "We'll go and have a talk - "

"I'm getting a taxi back to Baker Street, I've got other things to do," John interrupts suddenly, and leaves the tent hastily.

Sherlock finds himself floundering slightly, enough for Donovan to snidely comment, "Pissed off your boyfriend have you?" and Anderson to guffaw behind his hand.

Lestrade rolls his eyes at Sherlock. "For gods sake, Sherlock, get him _back_," and Sherlock takes the advice and flees the tent.

He finds John outside, making his way to the main road to get a taxi, and catches him up quickly, then cuts him off by standing right in front of him. "At least come to Moorland's surgery with me."

John stops, because the alternative is walking directly into Sherlock, but he sighs heavily. "I've done my bit, I've got other things to do."

"I might need you," Sherlock persists.

John glares. "I've got to pack." He starts to shoulder past Sherlock, but Sherlock grabs his arm, his heart pounding in silent panic. He doesn't want to do this without John.

"If not for me, then for the victim."

The look John shoots Sherlock is venomous; he shakes off Sherlock's hand. "Don't," he snaps. "_Don't _try and emotionally blackmail me. Not _you_, you don't give a stuff about the victim!"

"Well help me then!" Sherlock very almost yells, at the end of his tether.

"_Why should I?_" John properly shouts back.

They stare at each other; in all their arguments, they've never descended into a full-blown screaming match before. They also both know that Sherlock's demand for help was not simply about the case at hand.

John shoves his hands into his pockets awkwardly. "Go and find someone else to help you," he snaps. "I've had enough."

Sherlock says, inwardly amazed at his very quiet, rattled tone, "I don't _want_ anyone else."

He didn't mean to be that honest, but it makes John waver a little, Sherlock can see it. He grabs this one last chance. "Just to the surgery," he urges. "Then you can go, I swear."

When John sighs, Sherlock knows he has won.

* * *

_Please to review if ye liked!_


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** The Case Of The Perfect Stitch-Up: PART THREE - Honesty and Lies

**Author:** starjenni

**Disclaimer: **Not mine!

**Characters, Pairings:** Sherlock/John gen. (although could be seen as slash if you lie on the floor, tilt the computer sideways and squint). In this chapter, cameos by some of my own characters.

**Warnings: **Arguments, swearing, thoughts of violence, mentions of death. It's quite angsty, so a warning for that too.

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers: **For all episodes.

**Summary:** John's finally had enough of trying to change Sherlock's heartless nature and decides to move out. However, a case pops up just before he can, leading the pair on a wild, complicated and above all _difficult _adventure. How is this going to help their already existing problems? The s**t, as the old proverb goes, has hit the fan…

* * *

The surgery that Moorland worked for turns out to be just as small as it is private, with the only other surgeon working there being one Dr Thorsten. They discover that he is in the only operating theatre, training his nephew Dan who is undergoing his surgical clinical clerkship with him. When they enter, they find him soundly rebuking the nephew over a cold corpse; possibly not the best position to find him in, John thinks ironically to himself.

"Your stitching is abysmal," Thorsten is saying to the nephew as they enter. He is a large, thickset man, who obviously works out, with a grim line for a mouth and two very bright, cold eyes. The nephew is a tiny scrap of a fellow compared to him, and he looks up at Thorsten with frightened eyes.

"I'm trying - "

"Try _harder_ - "

"Dr Thorsten?" Sherlock asks, interrupting an otherwise potentially long debate.

Dr Thorsten looks up and turns around, and John gets a glance at the stitching going on. Thorsten is right - the boy's suturing is clumsy, inexperienced. And they appear to be working on a heart.

He glances at Sherlock, but one look at his face tells him Sherlock has already noticed this, and he feels the familiar fizzle of admiration that he always feels when Sherlock does something like this, something observant, something _genius._

_I will miss that,_ he thinks, and clears his throat to get rid of the lump suddenly forming in it.

"Do a lot of heart surgery here, do you?" Sherlock asks, after his introductions to who they are and why they're here.

Thorsten gives Sherlock a quick, hard look, and turns to the boy still struggling away. "Dan, could you leave us for a bit?"

The boy glances between them, quickly divines the situation and practically flees in his obedience. Thorsten shuts the door behind him, looks at the mess of stitches on the corpse and sighs. "He started out so well and then suddenly got worse…beginners luck I suppose. Still, if he doesn't improve…"

"Why are you working on the heart?" Sherlock persists, his eyes, as always, showing nothing.

Thorsten looks carefully at Sherlock, but answers honestly, "Because I am considered an expert in heart surgery." He catches the quick flick of a look Sherlock gives him and nods. "This is about Moorland, I know, the cops have already been onto me, they know about my reputation. But I'll tell you what I told them - I have several witnesses who will testify that _at the time of Moorland's death _I was at a large party for one of my closest friends." He smiles coldly at Sherlock. "So I have, as they say, the perfect alibi."

Sherlock says nothing, simply surveys Thorsten with blank eyes, and John can't help but wonder what is going through his head. He says, "You and Moorland - were you close?"

Thorsten's jaw sets. "I'm not close to anybody. But I suppose so, yes."

* * *

They are about to leave when they are stopped by the receptionist. She is round about forty, with sandy blonde hair and a grim expression.

"He done it," she calls lazily over to them. Sherlock stops, turns back and looks at her.

"Why do you say that?"

She pouts; her lipstick is orange and clashes with her blue suit. "'Cause he must 'av." She shrugs. "I know he says he got alibis, but that don't mean he's ain't his killer. He's got a perfect motive and everything, ain't he?"

Sherlock frowns. "What do you mean?"

The receptionist looks at them. "You mean he didn't tell you? Moorland was the co-owner of this place with Thorsten. Now he's dead, this whole place belongs to Thorsten." She pops a new piece of gum into her mouth. "Now if that ain't a motive, I dunno what is."

* * *

They catch up on the paperwork over dinner, this time free Italian courtesy of Angelo. It turned out that the receptionist was right; Thorsten and Moorland had both opened the surgery together with both their savings, and had been doing a good business operating on those who would pay for such private and close care.

"So," Sherlock says, fiddling with the tablecloth and not eating again. "Thorsten has the perfect motive _and _the perfect alibi…And there's something else, that has to be, something to do with their relationship…"

He glances at John, who has stayed suspiciously silent for a long time, and finds him frowning deeply into his drink. It's a frown that Sherlock knows well, because he often has it across his own face, it's a frown that says _there is something wrong here…_

"What is it?" he asks.

John shakes his head, still preoccupied with the problem in his head. "Something. I'm not sure…" He taps his fingers on the table and Sherlock becomes preoccupied with the interesting sight of John _figuring something out._ Is this how he looks all the time? So far away and detached and on the edge of some wonderful discovery? So far away from the world and yet so much himself, so fully _him_? So…_concentrated?_

"Sherlock," John says finally, in a voice that rings of the same distance that Sherlock's often does. "Could we go back to look at the body? Tomorrow, I mean? I feel like there's something I've missed…"

Sherlock takes a sip of his water, trying not to look too pleased. "Of course."

* * *

John's preoccupation with whatever he has missed means that he is vaguely amiable with Sherlock for the rest of the dinner, and Sherlock welcomes this hiatus; their relationship has been altogether too stressful the past week or so.

The break lasts until they get back to 221b and are greeted with John's half-packed stuff littered all over the living room, and they both remember just what John was meant to actually be doing tomorrow, and the awkwardness descends upon them again like an over-greedy vulture.

"Oh," says John, a bit weakly.

They glance at each other.

"I can always postpone - " John starts, just as Sherlock also says, "You don't have to postpone - " and they stop and stare at each other.

"I thought you didn't want me to go," says John flatly.

"I don't," says Sherlock, and he can't help it, he can't _help _it, but it's forcing its way out of him, all this resentment - "But since you're going to go _anyway_ - "

John's laugh is completely humourless. "So now you'd like to get rid of me sooner rather than later?" and that is _not fair _because John was the one who decided to go, John is the one giving up here, he can't turn it around like this, as if his decision is Sherlock's decision, and Sherlock snaps before he can really stop himself.

"Do you have any idea," he grinds out, "What it is like to be me?"

John snorts. "Oh _god_, Sherlock, save me the sob story - "

He turns to go upstairs, and Sherlock should let it go, he really should but he really can't; he lunges forward and grabs John's arm, turns him around so that John will _listen _for once.

"People use me," he snarls. "Everyone, all the time. They use me when they need me and when they don't need me they either ignore me or they try to change me, because they think _foolishly _that they can, that it will be better. Everyone - Lestrade, the entire _police force_, Mycroft - no one ever questions whether they should, because it's not as if I don't enjoy it, but they do, they _use me _and when I am not useful I am nothing to anyone John, and I thought that _you_ - " The last word leaves him in a choked gasp, and he has to drop John's arm and step back to collect himself before he gets really angry or really upset, it could easily go either way right at this moment.

John has gone very quiet.

"I thought that maybe you might be different," Sherlock continues calmly to the floor. "That you accepted me for _me_, and you did such a good job at that, didn't you John, staying here, putting up with all my little trials and annoyances, oh good job _you_, but in the end - _in the end_ - you are just as bad as anyone else and I was an idiot - I was such an _idiot _- for thinking anything different, but I know now and it's over now and that is it now, that is _it_."

He didn't mean to say so much, to ramble so, to show such bitterness. He tries to take in a deep, cooling breath, but there is no air here that is not clogged with pain and heat and anger, the flat is thick with it.

He glances up at John, as if daring him to say otherwise, but John's not stupid, and he's not the type of man to protest something that is a lie. His face is torn, but it is honest.

"I just want what's best for you," John eventually says, with apparent effort.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, you want what's best for _society_, John." He flashes him a rather desperate, humourless little smile. "You're ever the soldier aren't you? Sacrificing one person for everyone else."

Something sets in John's jaw. "The greater good," he agrees.

Sherlock nods; an acknowledgement. They both know there is something in what John believes, that people are important, that the more the better, that a person should change themselves to help the world, but all Sherlock can think is what sort of world is it, what sort of world can it really be, if people need to _change _to fit inside it? The world should change for people. People should not change for the world. Or is this just a selfish, selfish view that John doesn't get because it would never occur to him to be that self-obsessed? Is Sherlock just being _vain?_

It is all too much, too close, and Sherlock flees before he does or says anything else that he cannot take back. He has been honest, but it has most likely lost him John forever.

He sits on the edge of his bed and tries not to wonder if John will still be there when he comes out in the morning.

* * *

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